


the wing wherewith we fly to heaven

by vlieger



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-13 14:51:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vlieger/pseuds/vlieger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>based on <a href="http://teenwolfkink.livejournal.com/6131.html?thread=4398579#t4398579">this prompt</a> at the kinkmeme: AU in which Stiles' mother had died because of Huntington's Disease.</p><p>When Stiles goes to get tested if the disease had been passed down to him, he asks Derek to go with him.</p><p>Up to you if the news are good or bad. And I'd love it if Derek and Stiles were pre-relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the wing wherewith we fly to heaven

Stiles has done a pretty good job of not thinking about it. It's like-- his mom dying and what she died of are these totally separate things, in his head, and so this way, even if he does think about his mom, and misses her more achingly on her birthday and holidays than he does every other day of the year, he doesn't have to think about anything else, anything like…like whether he's going to die of the same thing. 

It helps a lot, too, when his best friend gets bitten by a fucking _werewolf_ and suddenly his life his full of creepy supernatural beings and bloodthirsty hunters and people wanting to kill him at every turn.

Like, the thought that he might die tomorrow of-- well, _anything_ , with the bunch he's surrounded by, kind of makes redundant the thought that he might die in twenty to thirty years of Huntington's. 

It's kind of weird, he thinks. Like, knowing himself and everything, how desperately he always needs to _know_ , it's strange how much he doesn't want to with this. 

Sure, it's a bit different, but the possibility of the outcome being bad has never stopped him before.

It's kind of his philosophy. Like, it's _knowledge_ , you can't pick and choose and resent it if it turns out to be something you don't want to hear. 

If you want to know things, you have to be prepared for the consequences of knowing.

Or something. 

The best reason he can come up with is that he doesn't want an expiry date. Not now, anyway. Not when he has to make it through highschool alive either way.

No one else knows when they're going to die, so that's-- so why should he?

If Scott gets to run into a fight with hunters not knowing whether he's going to die then or of some wolfy cancer in twenty years or old age in seventy, he wants the same thing.

He doesn't want it hanging over him to change him or the things he does or the way his dad looks at him. Denial maybe isn't the healthiest way of getting through things, but hey, it's working for them. 

 

It starts to change a bit once he's thinking about leaving for college.

The thing is, everything's settled down now, with the pack. The crazy supernatural forays through the woods have diminished to the occasional, manageable situation (as opposed to epic, end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it, I'm-definitely-going-to-die-tonight disasters), and everyone's sorted out their issues with everyone else to the extent that they can all be in the same room for extended periods of bonding time (Stiles is still proud of that institution; all his idea, obviously, but come on, someone had to step up when Derek's knowledge of how to deal with teenagers and emotions and teenagers with emotions and, you know, people and feelings in general, ran out. Which Stiles pinpoints as somewhere around halfway through the second day). 

So that's the thing, and the other thing is-- well, now that there's not so much to deal with _now_ , like, now that he's not just scrambling to make it through the night alive and trying to keep his grades up alongside keeping his friends alive, he's starting to think about the future, and-- and. 

Well, when the future comes into the equation, so does, obviously, the question of how much of a future he's even going to have. 

It's starting to feel, more and more every day, as his highschool graduation fades into the distance and having to choose a college gets closer, like something it's time he knew. 

He doesn't _want_ to know, really, or well, in terms of how much it could potentially suck, and his dad's face, and-- and Scott, and everyone, and just. 

In terms of-- of finally being sure, though, and manning up and figuring out his life, that's-- he does want to know, and that's the thing about knowing, isn't it, his relationship with knowledge. 

You can't shy away from it just because it might suck, and he figures he's shied away from this one enough. 

Like, there were good reasons for it then. There were other things he needed to do, and _know_ , more urgently. 

Now, though, it's like-- it's time. He tells it to himself like that to make himself feel better, all dramatic, imagining some deep, authoritative movie-hero voice saying it. It doesn't really help. 

 

He tells his dad first, obviously. Over breakfast, which-- he's trying to figure out how to even get the words out, standing there with the milk tipped over his bowl of cereal so long he forgets about it and the bowl overflows, bits of cornflakes floating on a thin film of milk along the counter. 

" _Shit_ ," he says, setting the milk down and scrambling for a cloth. 

"Language," says his dad absently. 

Stiles rolls his eyes. 

"So hey, dad," he says as he wipes up the mess. Straight to the point is probably his best option here. His dad always appreciates it, especially with bad news and stuff, and God knows Stiles doesn't indulge him on it often. "I think I'm going to go get tested."

"What?" says his dad, choking on his orange juice and looking up. "Stiles, did that excruciating talk a couple years back not scar you like it scarred me? How hard is it to use protection, seriously? Also, _who_ have you been-- you know." He gestures with his glass. 

"Oh my God, dad," says Stiles, flailing and getting cornflakes on the window. "Not-- not for _sex_ stuff. For-- you know."

"What?" says his dad, blinking. "Oh. _Oh_. That's." He stops, shaking his head. "Are you sure?" he says eventually, quietly. 

"I think it's time, you know?" says Stiles, shrugging. "Now that I'm thinking about my future or whatever."

"Do you want me to come with you?" says the sheriff. 

Stiles shakes his head. "I don't-- I don't want it to be a big deal," he says. "I'll just-- in and out, get the results."

"Okay," says his dad. "Maybe-- maybe Scott should go with you though. Someone."

"I'm _fine_ ," says Stiles. "I mean, it's probably fine, I haven't-- I got stuck with so much crazy already, I can't possibly have…have that as well. It's just like, a law of the universe, you know? Maybe even physics. I should look that up. There's definitely a theory about that somewhere."

His dad just looks at him. 

"Dad," says Stiles after a silence. He hates…he hates when his dad looks like that. More than anything.

The sheriff shakes his head, blinking. "Of course you'll be fine," he says. 

"Convincing," says Stiles, rolling his eyes. "Okay, well. I'll-- I'll let you know, I guess." He throws the cloth into the sink and makes to move out of the kitchen. "No burger and fries for lunch," he adds, pointing sternly at his dad. "And _no_ drinking. I'm eighteen now, you can't use me as an excuse anymore."

"You're always an excuse," says his dad quietly. 

Stiles bites down on his lip. "Don't-- don't go clogging up your arteries until we know what's going on. Only one dying person in this house at a time. New rule."

"Stiles," says his dad. It sounds like he's trying to go for angry, or stern, but it just comes out painful.

Stiles swallows. "Sorry," he says. "I-- I have to go. Love you, dad."

"Yeah." His dad waves a hand after him. "Love you too."

 

He thinks about taking Scott. Or well, he thinks about _telling_ Scott before he gets to thinking about taking him, but the thing is, he just-- he doesn't want to freak anyone out unnecessarily, and like, much as it's hard to remember, and much as he can't stop shaking with nerves and then freaking out over the shaking and then reminding himself he's just nervous and not, you know, suddenly displaying all these symptoms out of nowhere, there's still a fifty per cent chance there's nothing wrong with him at all.

You know, apart from the ADHD and the jumpiness and the still-lingering, crippling anxiety over his friends or his dad getting hurt or killed, and he still doesn't sleep all that well, and occasionally he blinks back to awareness in front of his computer screen and realises with a jolt that four hours have passed since he last looked at the clock, but, well. That's all normal, par-for-the-course Stiles stuff now. 

Scott is…well, Scott is Scott, and he would freak out, which would freak Stiles out, and Stiles doesn't need that right now. Not after his dad…not after his dad's face over the breakfast table. 

He kind of…he just, he doesn't want to go alone though, either, and well, there's only one person in his life who never visibly freaks out about anything, isn't there. 

 

"Yo, Derek," says Stiles, pushing into Derek's as-of-last-year fully furnished and functional kitchen.

"What, Stiles," says Derek long-sufferingly, setting down the newspaper he's reading.

Which…huh. Derek reads the newspaper? Maybe you do really learn something new every day. 

"I need, like, a favour," says Stiles. 

Derek rolls his eyes and picks up the newspaper again. "I'm not carrying the lockers out onto the lacrosse field," he says. 

Stiles waves a hand. "Don't be ridiculous, that was one time. I'm not a prank-repeater, you know me better than that." He pauses. "No, dude, I need-- I need you to come with me."

"Where?" says Derek, looking at him suspiciously over the top of the paper. 

"The hospital, okay, I need to go get tested."

Derek raises his eyebrows. "Seriously, Stiles?" he says. 

"Oh my God," says Stiles loudly, throwing up his hands. "I don't know why everyone's suddenly jumping to the conclusion that I've been having a ton of illicit, unsafe sex after years of laughing at the idea. Not that I'm not flattered, you know, I mean, hello, it's about time. I'm totally sexy. But no, it's not-- not for that."

Derek puts the newspaper down, more seriously this time. If putting down a newspaper is a thing you can do with like, levels of seriousness. "What for?" he says, frowning. 

Stiles shakes his head and glances around the kitchen. There's a random pile of what looks like twigs but are probably some kind of…of magical herb or whatever on the counter. He goes to fiddle with them. Derek doesn't say anything, so he guesses they aren't poisonous. Hey, point for him. 

"Stiles," says Derek, when Stiles gets kind of absorbed in arranging the twigs in a line from smallest to largest and forgets to answer. 

"Huh?" Stiles looks up. "Oh, just. It's-- it's my mom, okay."

Derek frowns harder. "I thought your mom-- "

"She did," says Stiles quickly. "But that's-- that's kind of the point?" He shakes his head again and starts pushing the twigs so the bottoms are all lined up.

Derek growls a bit and stands up, moving to haul Stiles away from the counter and press him up against the fridge with a hand fisted in the front of his t-shirt, holding him there. "Talk," he says, ducking his head in threateningly. "And make _sense_."

"Right." Stiles swallows. "Um, so my mom-- my mom had Huntington's, okay, and I-- I don't know how much you know about that, but it's a genetic thing, so I-- I mean, there's a fifty fifty chance that I either have it or don't, and I. I've never checked."

Derek just stares at him. 

Stiles stares back, and after a moment says, a bit tentatively, "Huntington's is-- "

"I know what it is," says Derek tightly. 

"Okay," says Stiles. "Um."

"Why haven't you been tested already?" says Derek. He's still holding Stiles against the fridge, but it feels almost like he's just…forgotten to let go, or something. 

Stiles shrugs. "Because I-- I didn't want to know til now, I mean, it didn't seem important just then, I was in highschool and I was always going to finish highschool, and then there were werewolves and hunters and shit and everything was crazy and awesome and I was researching the hell out of other things, you know, stuff to keep us all _alive_ , and it just seemed…not worth it. Or at least not worth-- not worth knowing if. You know. Yet." He bites down on his lip. 

"Stiles," says Derek. 

"What, _what?_ " says Stiles loudly. "You don't-- you don't get to be mad at me for this, dude. This is my thing, okay, I get to deal with it however I want."

"No," says Derek. 

"Excuse me?" says Stiles. "What do you mean, _no?_ "

"I mean, no," says Derek. "We're a pack, Stiles."

"That doesn't mean I have to tell you everything," hisses Stiles. "You can't-- that's so hypocritical, dude, you're the king of not telling anyone anything, come on."

Derek bares his teeth. 

"Look," says Stiles. "Before you get all crazy and kill me or something, let me just-- I couldn't okay, I didn't even-- half the time _I_ didn't even register, and that's how I wanted it, okay, I wanted to be normal. Do you know-- I'm so _freaked out_ , Derek, I couldn't be like that all the time, I'm already a spazz, you know that, so don't. Don't tell me I did the wrong thing. I _didn't_."

Derek uncurls his hands slowly from Stiles' t-shirt. "Stiles," he says again. 

"I just," says Stiles, breathing out. "I just need you to come with me, okay, and not lecture me or anything, just be your creepy blank-faced self, because you know, apart from being the king of not telling anyone anything, you're also the king of not freaking out even when the only sane response is freaking out, so. I need you to come with me." He pauses. "Please."

Derek takes a single step back. "Okay," he says. "I'm driving."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "If you thought I'd argue, you total control freak, you've got another thing coming," he says. He holds his hands out in front of him, showing Derek how they've been shaking all morning. "I'd probably total my baby in this state."

"Stiles," says Derek, eyes fixed on his hands. 

"Stop saying my name like that, dude," says Stiles quietly. 

Derek looks back up to meet his eyes. "When?" he says.

"My appointment's in an hour," says Stiles.

"Let's go," says Derek, grabbing his keys and striding out without waiting for Stiles.

That's…okay. Stiles actually smiles to himself. At least some things never change. It's weirdly comforting, for such a small, stupid thing.

 

"How does it work?" says Derek in the waiting room. He's sitting stiffly-- seriously, it took Stiles five minutes to talk him into using a goddamn chair-- with his arms folded over his chest. 

Stiles shrugs. "They do a neurological exam for physical symptoms," he says. "Then they take some blood to do a genetic test. They also throw in some free counselling, because hey, that's totally going to prepare you for having Huntington's, right? Or like, maybe they'll pretend to know what it's like watching your mom die of it, or-- "

"Stiles," says Derek. He unfolds his arms and reaches over to put a hand on Stiles' knee, pressing down until he stills its frantic jittering. 

Stiles blows out a breath. "I'm freaking out here, dude," he says shakily. 

"And you thought I was the one to deal with this," says Derek flatly. 

Stiles grins a little hysterically. "I don't know, man, I thought-- I just thought in the scheme of things it was better to have someone guaranteed not to freak out as well. Like, yeah, Scott can be comforting, when he pulls his head out of his ass, but he's also the worst at hiding his feelings, okay, so I just." He trails off and shrugs. "Although," he adds after a moment, "You do freak out sometimes, don't you? I mean, I've seen you kill more than a few people now. Maybe you actually freak out more than anyone, I mean, at least Scott doesn't jump straight to murder as proportional response. Not that I'm saying the people you've killed weren't totally justified. So that's-- fuck, I don't even know what my point is anymore, I haven't been thinking straight since I decided to do this, I-- "

"It's fine," says Derek shortly. He tightens his hand. "I'm not going to kill anyone."

"Good to know," says Stiles. "I just-- I wanted-- you're good at, like, pretending feelings aren't happening. Or something."

"Or something," agrees Derek. 

"Hey," says Stiles, looking over at him. "You do actually have feelings though, right?"

"This is what you want to talk about?" says Derek.

Stiles shrugs. "Better than anything else that's on my mind right now."

Derek purses his lips. "Of course I have feelings," he says eventually.

"Yeah?" says Stiles interestedly. "About what?"

"Freaking hell." Derek rolls his eyes. "The weather. My car. People who put sugar in coffee."

Stiles shakes his head. "Maybe I should have clarified," he says. "Feelings that aren't anger about things that aren't meaningless."

"Stiles," says Derek warningly. 

"Come on, man," says Stiles. "I'm dying here. Like, possibly literally." It's a low blow, he knows, but it's not like he doesn't actually mean it, or that it isn't true, so he figures he's allowed. 

Derek narrows his eyes at where they're still focused on the opposite wall. "My family," he says eventually. "Laura. Peter. The pack. You."

"I." Stiles blinks. "Me?"

"Does annoyance count as not anger?" says Derek. 

"Are you deflecting again, or-- " He stops when his name is called. 

Derek lifts his hand from his knee. "Stiles," he says quietly. 

"Yeah," says Stiles. He doesn't move. 

Derek shifts a bit closer to him, as much as he can when they're in separate chairs. "It's okay," he says, kind of stilted. 

"It's really not," says Stiles, smiling kind of painfully. 

"It will be," says Derek. He puts a hand on the side of Stiles' neck. It feels kind of nice, like, big and warm and just _there_ , steadying him, slowing down his racing pulse. Stiles leans into it a bit. 

"Okay," says Stiles. He breathes out. "Okay, I'm going," he says.

Derek takes his hand back when Stiles stands. Stiles looks at him, pulling his lip between his teeth.

"I'll be here," says Derek.

"Okay," says Stiles again. 

Derek quirks a smile, like, it's not huge and it looks kind of forced but not in a way where it's fake. 

It's kind of encouraging, actually, and comforting, and Stiles trips into the exam room before he loses that feeling-- and his nerve-- entirely. 

 

"Oh my God," says Stiles when he stumbles back into the waiting room a couple of hours later. He feels wrung out, completely exhausted, like, worse than when he's been running around the woods trying to not die for hours on end. Much, much worse, actually. Fuck. 

Derek stands immediately and catches him with a hand on each arm. "What?" he says. 

Stiles shakes his head. "I'm just-- it's-- fuck, I don't know," he says. 

"Okay," says Derek. "Are we done here?"

"Yeah, we're done," says Stiles. 

"Let's go," says Derek. "Can you walk?"

"It takes, like, at least ten years to get to the not being able to walk stage," says Stiles.

Derek gives him a look. "That's not funny," he says.

"Sorry," says Stiles.

Derek shakes his head and moves to stand next to him, spreading a hand out between his shoulderblades. "Come on," he says. 

"Yeah," says Stiles, walking kind of perfunctorily next to him. 

Derek doesn't start the car when he settles into the driver's seat. That's probably good, like, safety-conscious or whatever, since Stiles is bent over with his head between his knees, trying to breathe and stop freaking the fuck out. 

"Stiles," says Derek. "What's happening? Are you having a panic attack?"

"I'm not sure," says Stiles honestly. 

Derek puts a hand on the small of his back. It feels…it's good, like his hand on Stiles' neck earlier in the waiting room. Just-- there and real, like, in this moment or something, and _Derek_. 

"That's," says Stiles. "Just. Don't stop doing that."

"Doing what?" says Derek blankly. 

"Your hand," says Stiles into his knees.

"Oh," says Derek. "Okay."

There's silence for a moment, Stiles just focusing on breathing and Derek's hand pressed kind of fiercely against his back, and after a while, when Stiles feels like he can move again and not, like, collapse immediately into a pile of fizzing, overused nerves and melted bone, he says, "Can I hug you?"

Derek says, after a few palpable heartbeats, "If that's what you need."

"It's what I _want_ ," says Stiles, uncurling his spine and scrambling over the gearstick to crawl clumsily and kind of painfully into Derek's lap, because yeah, he does kind of need to hold onto something right now, but he wants to hold onto _Derek_ , because Derek agreed to come with him and actually turned out to be amazingly helpful, like, yeah, part genius decision on Stiles' part, but also part Derek being unexpectedly awesome, and that's. Stiles just wants to _hug_ him, okay. He doesn't have to explain himself right now. 

Derek looks kind of startled, like he doesn't know what to do with a lapful of _person_ , so Stiles takes the initiative and presses his face under Derek's jaw and loops his arms in what would probably be a stranglehold, if this wasn't some supernaturally strong werewolf, around his neck. It's not comfortable, really; they're in the Camaro so there's barely room for one person in the driver's seat, never mind two, and the steering wheel is digging painfully into Stiles' back, but then Derek lifts his arms to wedge between it and Stiles, and it's better then, just…just settling into this cocoon of Derek, his now-familiar smell of leather and pine and something…something Derek-y that Stiles can't quite put his finger on, probably because he's not a werewolf with super senses. 

"Thanks," he mumbles into Derek's neck. 

Derek tightens his arms a little and says, "You're welcome," quietly. 

 

Derek makes him sleep when he drops him home, like, he doesn't helpfully suggest it like a normal person, he just follows Stiles up to his room and says, "Sleep," and manhandles him into bed. 

Stiles rolls his eyes. "You and my dad would totally bond over your weirdo paranoid worrying," he says.

"Because it's paranoia when you just went for a Huntington's test, right." Derek nods sarcastically.

"Ooh, burn," says Stiles, yawning.

"Shut up," says Derek. "Sleep."

"Are you staying?" says Stiles, blinking at him curiously. 

Derek frowns. "Until I'm sure you're actually asleep, yeah," he says. 

"Okay," says Stiles, rolling over and pulling the blanket over himself. 

There's a weird, palpable silence before Derek lets out a minute breath and Stiles feels his weight dipping the bed, settling up behind Stiles and slotting an arm over his waist. 

"Good," says Stiles, kind of stupidly. "I wasn't sure I could sleep right now."

"You can," says Derek, warm against the back of his neck. 

"Yeah," says Stiles, and he does. 

 

When he wakes up Derek's still there, which is surprising in itself, but then he rolls over and Derek looks like he's actually _asleep_. 

Stiles takes the opportunity to take a leaf out of Derek's book and stare like a creeper, because, well, Derek's stupidly attractive, and now he's all close-up and soft-looking and just. It's a nice distraction, at the very, very least. Stiles swallows and reaches out to rasp a fingertip over the stubble on his jaw. 

Derek's eyes flutter open.

"Hi," says Stiles, drawing his hand back. 

"Hi," says Derek.

He rolls onto his back. 

"Um. Thanks for-- for staying, and. You know." Stiles waves a hand.

Derek grunts in acknowledgement. 

It actually makes Stiles smile, like. It's kind of awesome that Derek isn't trying to be all weird and nice and totally unlike himself just because Stiles is…well, because things kind of suck right now. 

"I have to go," says Derek.

"That's cool," says Stiles. "Pack stuff, right? An Alpha never sleeps. Apart from like, just now."

Derek rolls his eyes and sits up. "How long until you know?" he says. 

"Oh, um." Stiles shrugs. "A couple of weeks, they said. The neurological exam didn't show any symptoms. Or well, once I explained that I'm always a spazzy weirdo. Although I think they picked up on that pretty much straight away. Like, everyone does, right? Bane of my existence." He shakes his head ruefully.

Derek shakes his head too, ruefully as well, it looks like. Also probably over Stiles' existence. What a coincidence. Stiles grins. 

"Don't do anything stupid," says Derek, standing. 

"Like what, follow a bunch of werewolves into the night for mortally dangerous fun times?"

"Shut up, Stiles," says Derek. 

"Never," says Stiles, sticking his tongue out. It's weird, how normal he feels, like, just _okay_ right now, although there's still this overhanging, distant cloud of surreal…something he can't shake. 

Right now though, just in this moment, his bedroom and the late afternoon light hitting Derek as he opens the window to jump out, it's kind of normal and a little bit comforting and almost-- not quite, not yet, but almost-- hopeful. 

 

Derek climbs back through his window at three in the morning. Stiles is awake at his computer, tapping out a frantic rhythm on the mouse and not really doing much of anything.

"What the hell are you doing?" says Derek dangerously. "Why aren't you sleeping?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Sorry to burst your bubble, doc, but I'm going to be getting even less sleep than usual in the next two weeks."

"You don't sleep enough anyway," says Derek. "You're no good to the pack if you're tired."

"Your bedside-- computer side?-- manner is amazing," says Stiles. 

"Shut up, Stiles," says Derek. 

"That's totally your catchphrase, you know that, right?" says Stiles, wheeling around in his chair to look at him. 

"Same goes for everyone who's ever met you," says Derek. 

"Look," says Stiles. "I appreciate your concern, creepy and occasionally all-out terrifying as it's been over the last couple of years, but I just. This is how I deal with shit, okay."

Derek shakes his head and steps across the room to haul him upright.

"Oh my God, seriously?" says Stiles. "You can't actually force me into sleeping with like, the power of your scariness. This is one area where it's totally not effective, okay, I don't-- "

The rest of his sentence is muffled by Derek's mouth, because oh, hey, Derek's _kissing_ him, what the actual fuck. 

"What the hell are you doing?" says Stiles shrilly, wrenching himself away from Derek even though ninety per cent of him thinks that's the stupidest idea ever. 

"What does it look like I'm doing?" says Derek irritably. 

Stiles waves his hands. "Don't-- don't-- you don't _get_ to do that, okay, that's not-- I don't need your pity, or, or-- "

"You think that was me _pitying_ you?" says Derek, laughing but not like, happily. He doesn't even smile. It's weird; kind of creepy. "You make me a lot of things, but sorry for you isn't one of them."

Stiles stares at him. "Then what-- why did you do that?"

"Because I wanted to, idiot," says Derek, rolling his eyes. 

"What, all of a sudden, you just-- or do you have some kind of-- of degenerative neurological illness kink or something?"

Derek's eyes flash red. "Don't _say_ that," he hisses through gritted teeth. 

"You don't get to be offended for me, I'm the one who _has_ it," says Stiles. 

"You don't know that," says Derek. 

"Yeah, well, I'm steeling myself, whatever," says Stiles. "That is not the point right now, dude, the point is what the _hell_ , this is-- "

"It's not all of a sudden, okay," Derek cuts across. 

"You-- what?" Stiles blinks at him, stilling. 

"It's not all of a sudden," says Derek again. 

Stiles stares at him. "How long then?" he demands. 

"A couple of years, it doesn't matter," says Derek. "The point is-- "

"What do you mean, it doesn't _matter_ , a couple of years is not a matter that doesn't matter, holy shit, you just-- I thought-- I mean, I wanted-- "

"Shut up, Stiles," says Derek. 

"Yeah," says Stiles blankly, swallowing. 

Derek frowns at him for a moment, then steps forward and spreads a hand out over Stiles' jaw, fingers tipping over onto his cheek. "I was being a coward," he says.

"Yeah, right, you dumbass _Alpha werewolf_ ," says Stiles. 

"That's not." Derek frowns. "That doesn't mean I can't be a coward."

"Well. Yeah, I guess. It doesn't mean you can't be an idiot either," agrees Stiles.

Derek looks at him.

"Sorry, sorry, your point over here, me over there. Coming back now. Continue."

"Did you ever wonder why you're not a werewolf but still part of the pack?" says Derek. 

"Because you can't get rid of me?" says Stiles.

The corner of Derek's mouth twitches. "Apart from that," he says. 

"I-- I guess I have the Jeep," says Stiles, shrugging. "And I'm pretty amazing at Googling shit."

"It's because," says Derek, pressing his thumb under Stiles' jaw, "We need you. You keep us together, you don't let anyone get away with anything, you-- you inspire-- "

"Seriously, oh my God," says Stiles. "You don't-- I know what you're getting at. You don't need to make me feel better or anything, dude, I just-- "

"I'm not lying," says Derek. "But I _was_ going to finish with 'you're also an incredibly oblivious moron for someone so smart.'"

"Oh good, I thought you'd been replaced by some sort of pod person," says Stiles. 

"Also that we all _care_ about you," adds Derek.

"And we're back on the pod person theory," says Stiles. "Derek, seriously, you're freaking me-- "

"You were being brave," says Derek, ignoring him. "And it's about time I am, too."

Stiles opens his mouth, but he isn't actually sure what he's going to say, so he shuts it again. 

"Okay?" says Derek. 

"Um," says Stiles stupidly. "So. You-- you like me?"

Derek rolls his eyes. "Yes, Stiles," he says. 

"You've liked me for-- for two years," clarifies Stiles.

" _Yes_ , Stiles," says Derek again. 

"You want to-- what, I don't-- kiss me? Date me?"

"Everything," says Derek, low and fierce.

Stiles swallows. "That's-- okay, hold that thought, I just have one more-- I mean, and. And you didn't tell me because-- because you were scared? You don't like feelings. You don't know how to _deal_ with feelings like a normal person. Or, oh, you thought I was too young. You were waiting. You didn't want to like me. I'm annoying, so that's-- "

"All of the above," says Derek, cutting him off. He tilts his head slightly. "Some more than others."

"Oh," says Stiles weakly. "So this definitely isn't-- "

"I just-- I _want_ you, moron," says Derek, frustrated. "Then, now, next year, ten years-- things change, but that doesn't, okay. Get it through your head."

"Yeah, well, good, because I want you too," says Stiles, tilting his chin up challengingly. 

"I know," says Derek, smirking. He shifts his hand deliberately so he's thumbing over the frantic pulse in Stiles' jugular. 

"Asshole," says Stiles, leaning in to kiss him.

Derek opens him up fiercely, licking into his mouth, and Stiles lets him, just fucking _enjoys_ it, because he's wanted this for…for as long as he can remember, now, it's always been this low-burning, smouldering thing that made him giddy and stupid and jumpy (or well, more than usual) around Derek, and he never thought, he _never_ thought Derek would…that he'd actually get this, Derek kissing him, _touching_ him, never mind telling him…well, that. 

"You're going to be fine," Derek growls into his mouth. 

Stiles makes a helpless noise of agreement and kisses him harder, trying to press himself into Derek's ridiculously warm, solid chest. 

"And if not, I'll-- I'll give you the bite," says Derek. 

Stiles stills, then pulls back. "Would that--would that work?" he says curiously. 

"I don't know," says Derek. "Worth a try."

"I mean." Stiles bites down on his lip, thinking furiously, _interestedly_. "Huntington's is genetic, so-- but then, I guess _being a werewolf_ does something freaky to your genes. Someone needs to do some actual research into this shit. Like, legit scientific stuff. Maybe that's what I should do at college. Hey-- "

"Stiles," says Derek.

"Yeah," says Stiles, blinking at him. 

"It doesn't matter." Derek thumbs at the corner of Stiles' mouth. "It's going to be okay."

Stiles quirks a smile. "Some turnaround, huh, sour wolf?" he says. 

Derek twitches a smile back at him. "Shut up," he says. "You carry too much for us."

" _You_ carry too much, dude, holy shit, don't even get me _started_ on your multitude of issues, and-- "

"Stiles," says Derek. He curls a hand, possessive and bruising, over Stiles' hip. "Maybe we should work together then, huh? Switch up the circuits." He raises an eyebrow.

"Did you just use a _gym_ metaphor on me? Ugh, seriously. Also, what are you talking about, we already totally-- oh." He catches Derek's look and stops. " _Oh_. I-- yeah. Yeah, we should."

"Okay," says Derek, kissing him again.

"Okay," says Stiles into his mouth. "Wow. Okay."


End file.
